Category: Original Poetry

The first mermaid legend came from Assyria. Sea goddess Atargatis was made half-human for accidentally killing her human lover. Sirens, undines, malevolent waves and crests, selkies stories are ancient. As old as lamia or Lilith or were-creatures. Each story built on themes of sex and and death and the desire to possess abilities and beauty without consequence.

A-Ningyo

Why? There are enough earthbound mythic monstrosities roaming the haunted forests and windy moors. Witches and bogeymen aplenty lurking in caves and closets. Fear of our demise through the supernatural has been around since our common grunting ancestors heard something in the dark that was not familiar. And then there is the sea. It’s no coincidence that historically, biblically and geographically that Mesopotamia (the cradle of civilization) is nestled between the Tigris and Euphrates. Water is life. But even greater, water is bacteria!

It’s a mind-blowing read. It’s the prequel to Lovecraft’s The Shadow Over Innsmouth. Eschewing the primate loop, abandoning the man with one less rib in a pefect garden. It postulates that the stuff that makes us the creature we are today, was basically a primordial kombucha batch from 540 million years ago. And we were NOT attractive in the least.

A Saccorhytus. Our ancestors?

So what is it we fear with mermaids?

Drowning? Losing our life by the pressure and glory of taking in all that salt, all that bacteria, all that magick to become fish food. To give our corporeal selves over to desire, drift in the siren song until our breath is not enough to sustain us. To attach ourselves in a haze to beauty until it murders us. To willingly love a creature whose world we cannot inhabit.

Mermaid carved in a bench Zennor Church, Cornwall UK.

Or is it simply to give in to the call of what we once were? To reconnect with ancestors in a way far deeper than anything that can be mapped through genealogy. What do we lose in ourselves when we blindly believe a theory? What do we regain in ourselves when we allow a story to take root in us?

Are you a dreamer or an independent thinker? Are you driven by love or fear?

Egyptian cave drawings depicting merfolk.

If mermaids are us, then they are that part of us that stubbornly refused to leave the ancient waters. They are the part of us that builds unseen, ornate kingdoms where only the imagination can visit without dying. They are the part of us that wants revenge on ourselves for buying into the idea that life is so much better on land. Mermaids want to prove that they were right all along to stay in the briny, prehistoric depths where technology, money, fashion, celebrity and all modern human trappings mean nothing.

Remember what you where before you became what you are? Mermaids do. That is what their siren songs are about. There is a beauty beyond all this earthly treasure, there is an authenticity to your being for which evolution provides no escape.

In my poem below, the mermaids have surrounded a drowning man. He is no more to them than a toy, an air-filled thing that has come untethered, an amusement.

So as my mother would tell the story, I was three. I was fascinated with “Little Red Riding Hood.” I had the 45 RPM single narrated by Paul Patterson. The cover showed the little blonde girl (and I was a little blonde girl) traipsing through the black trees with a dark purple sky. And in the foreground, lying in wait, a black wolf with shifty red eyes. He was meant to be sinister. I was meant to fear him. But I did not.

In my short time on this planet, much of it immersed in a fairy world of my own imagnation, I had already discovered that things are not always as they seem. I decided that wolves are friends. Dogs are friends. Forest creatures are friends. I also decided NOT to be the little blonde girl. I wanted instead to be the wolf. The wolf is easily the smartest character in the story.

When I was three, I traveled on all fours into the neighbor’s yard. I took off all my clothes and underwear. I proceeded to do what a wolf would do and pooped square in the middle of my neighbor’s front lawn. My mother charged across the street, red-faced and absolutely shocked.

“Holly Anne! What are you doing?!”

“I’m a wolf. Wolves poop outside, Mom.” I said logically.

She could not argue. She DID inform me that I was NOT a wolf. I needed to put my clothes on and go wash up. She sent me home and knocked on the neighbor’s door to both explain and apologize. I also had a visit to my pediatrician who assured her there was nothing wrong with me except a giant imagination.

Even now though, forty-five years later into this life, I love the story. I love the wolf. He shows up in my dreams – never as a threat – but as a guide, as a totem of family. Wolves care for their own.

My first collage, posted above was in an art show last year. It’s a 3′ x 2′ collage with natural objects, fabric and clay. The wolf is VERY furry. I put a sign next to it in the gallery that said, “PLEASE TOUCH THE WOLF. DO NOT BE AFRAID.” Because we are told in any art gallery to look and not touch. But he is very soft and velvety and he is accepting a lovely friendship rose from our little blonde girl.

People – especially children – DID touch the wolf. I sat at a little table and watched them. I wanted to foster understanding instead of fear. Connection instead of separation.

The collage found a permanent home in the Lit. On Fire Bookstore. I am happy so many people see it.

So I decided to retell the story in the poem posted below. I hope you like it. If I have to be the little blonde girl, I would rather be one who trusts her heart. I hope you enjoy this.

Room Enough…

I was so used to looking for wolves along the path,

I began to see everything as a wolf

–

Every shape or shadow shifting in the night,

Every light fair breeze rustling the bedcurtain,

Every man who might just be out to gather wood

And warm himself…

But that particular day, the daisies were grown tall and bright

And whispered that they would keep their chartreuse

Cyclops eyes peeled for any sign of lupine misadventure.

So I wandered among them, picking rabbit candy clover

And forging ships from billowy clouds and hummed

Little rhymes I knew as a child and

cast the net of my heart

Wide about the world

.

But daisies are liars or at the very least have short attention spans,

And wolves must be very fast because asudden, your fur brushed my arm.

I thought somehow I should be more scared, but my heart was open

And my mouth was still forming little rhymes.

I didn’t run and I did not scream. I did look you in the face for real.

For the endless second it took for your bottomless amber eye

To blink.

The door to my heart hung open, and all my fear of you and your legend

Decades ago, I crossed paths with three sisters. Each unique and full of courage and the kind of beauty that springs from deep connection and authenticity. One of them became my son’s godmother. And athough we do not see her often, I chose wisely. They remind me that every woman is part of a web and yet we spin our own stories. We all move through tides of loss and glory and joy. I am grateful for my freinds, my siSTARS.

I began work last week on a children’s book. In all the conflict of late between science and religion, I choose mythos. Mythos is the perfect dance between the two. Mythos finds that place within us that connects us to our own story and our own explanations for things. In this case, it is as easy as night and day.

Daz (the perfect artist for this) has been giving the following description:

The Three Sisters of the Sky.

Celeste, Selene and Soleil

Celeste, the vigilant the keeper of the balance of night and day. She keeps the peace between her two sisters Selene – the moon and Soleil – the sun.

Celeste is the oldest of the sisters. She dresses in multicolor stars and black cloaks, misty grey veils, colors of twilight and dawn. She is about beginnings and endings. She wakes her sisters and pulls back the veil of stars between dark and light. The morning glory and jackrabbits are her friends. Fireflies are her messengers. Night is coming. All will be well. Dawn is coming. Today will be glorious.

Soleil is the middle sister, she dresses is reds, oranges, yellows, blazing colors and gold. She visits the farmers to grow crops, she shines she shimmers. She waves to animals who bask. She warms. She strides across the bright fields. Sunflowers always turn their faces toward her. Coyote, Songbirds and deer are her familiars.

The youngest sister is Selene – she dresses is blues and indigos and silver. She visits the children to bring dreams. She glows and gleams and her hair is silver-blue beams. She follows travelers to brighten their path. She cools and comforts. She strolls silent through shadowed lands. The moonflower and jasmine bloom to greet her. Her friends are bats and foxes.

Celebrity couplings and breakups are fame fodder in the modern world. But in the early 1800’s it was not so common. Chopin the composer and Sand (writer Amantin Lucille Dupin who found it easier to publish under the male name George) shared nearly ten years of passion, creativity and connection. The story goes that she would lie naked under his piano, smoking cigars and scribbling away while he composed his nocturnes.

It ended badly between them, spurring her to write Lucrezia Florioni in which the villain is a dead ringer for Chopin. He would die two years later at the age of 39, still a prolific composer. In fact, his last posthumous publication was “Devil’s Trill” in 2001.

The couple were painted by their mutual friend, artist Eugène Delacroix. It hung in Delacroix’s studio until his death. His estate curator split the portrait in half in the belief that two paintings would sell better than one.

And so they are now forever separated. Sand’s half hangs in the Ordruppgaard Museum in Copenhagen. Chopin’s half is in the Louvre.

I wanted to bring them back together. To imagine the heady frangrance of her cigar smoke, the uncertain touch of piano keys, the sweetness. So I wrote this:

Celebrity couplings and breakups are fame fodder in the modern world. But in the early 1800’s it was not so common. Chopin the composer and Sand (writer Amantin Lucille Dupin who found it easier to publish under the male name George) shared nearly ten years of passion, creativity and connection. The story goes that she would lie naked under his piano, smoking cigars and scribbling away while he composed his nocturnes.

It ended badly between them, spurring her to write Lucrezia Florioni in which the villain is a dead ringer for Chopin. He would die two years later at the age of 39, still a prolific composer. In fact, his last posthumous publication was “Devil’s Trill” in 2001.

The couple were painted by their mutual friend, artist Eugène Delacroix. It hung in Delacroix’s studio until his death. His estate curator split the portrait in half in the belief that two paintings would sell better than one.

And so they are now forever separated. Sand’s half hangs in the Ordruppgaard Museum in Copenhagen. Chopin’s half is in the Louvre.

I wanted to bring them back together. To imagine the heady frangrance of her cigar smoke, the uncertain touch of piano keys, the sweetness. So I wrote this:

Today was my first trip to the local farmer’s market. The jewels of summer laid out in heady glory, each vegetable or fruit courting attention. Today I sought treasure and the feeling of home. The essence of love in pie form. Blueberries and nectarines without hesitation.

Tomorrow is June 11th. On June 11th, 1888, Vincent Van Gogh was conversing with Emile Bernard. “There can be no blue without yellow and orange.”

And there it is: Dark, limpid globes of blueberries set against the tart sunshine of nectarines. And it has to be an oat and honey crumble. No false sugar or bland crust to hide the beauty. Honey to bring in flower nuances, Oats to deliver the earthy, solid texture of warmth and home.

The picture above is the end result.

Peel 3-4 nectarines and arrange in the bottom of the pan. Add 1 cup of blueberries. Drizzle with honey. Melt 1/2 stick of butter in a pan and stir 1 cup gluten-free quick oats and 2 tbsps. more honey. Top fruit with crumble. Bake at 350 degrees Fahrenheit for 30 minutes. Let cool a bit, enjoy and share with people you love.

I wrote the poem below on a night like tonight, full strawberry moon rising above the peach-lavendar sunset. When summer is opening up in every color, in every breeze, in every flower, in all its bright affirmation of love and life.

The Other World of You

I know there is a secret part of you the world cannot touch

That glow beneath the skin, incandescent purple just at sunset when you

Are certain it is your will alone that melts winters into ripe summer blaze.

That part of you I glimpse in flashes through your eyes in the

honey-blue

crescent of your iris, the eclipse of soul dancing around the full

moon of your field of vision.

In my light, the half-light cascading chiaroscuro, I can read your secret map,

“In the flush of love’s light, we dare be brave. And suddenly we see that love costs all we are, and will ever be. Yet it is only love which sets us free.’ – Maya Angelou
Maya Angelou left us here three years ago today. That is to say her body passed on and out of our shared mortal coil. Her voice and her words, her indelible honesty, her dauntless hope are not going anywhere. Her legacy is bright, solid as stone, smooth as truth, infectious as forbidden laughter.

I read her biographies, devoured her poetry, understood her silence at heart level. I wrote a poem for her a long time ago. For her, like her, about her. It is a small thing. Not so much a great work of greatness. It is a small piece of love to be added to the patchwork quilt of kindness and rememberance; the network of loving words spoken about someone when they leave us. It is the muffled muttering of minor stars when a supernova in their constellation flickers out.

Tonight’s blog is about food for the eyes and heart. The Mirror of Venus, shown above, graces one of our many studio books. This book on the Pre-Raphaelite painters is special to me. It was a gift from the man I love. My eyes trace the outline of the group of girls, their wistful and hopeful search for their own beauty within the rocky pool. But I always come back to the girl standing tall in light blue – the one who disappears and is replaced in the water by round black rocks over white forming a rudimentary skull. A Momento Mori in the heartspace of all the beauty. A reminder that we, our bodies, our vanities are temporal – the bare bone gleam of mortality begs us to remember that each moment alive and in love is a gift.

In gratitude, for being both alive and in love in this extended moment of beauty, I offer up this poem:

Momento Mori

In all the richness of color captured by my eye

In all the spectrum of love, hues burning vision down to the scorched cone

Of nerve and illusion, I stop here

I stop here and rest my fingers on the white carbon star at the base of your throat

Where the valley of your breath and flame of your heart trade secrets.

I stop here and wonder at the machines we are, the spirits that drive them

Where ghost and grim are one and the hum of my brain finds its rhythm

In the insistent, deep pounding of your heart.

In all the dreaming and wrestling with lucid night

In this shadowed hour full of knowing, embers glowing dark in your iris

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